


we'll turn to ashes (just you wait)

by ventilation



Series: proyekta [1]
Category: Corpse Bride (2005)
Genre: 2018 WIP - Unfinished, F/M, Worldbuilding, character exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27486547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ventilation/pseuds/ventilation
Summary: He loved her a little too late. bonejangles, emily
Relationships: Bonejangles/Emily (Corpse Bride), Victor Van Dort/Emily
Series: proyekta [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008636
Kudos: 4





	we'll turn to ashes (just you wait)

**Author's Note:**

> a supposed oneshot that had never been finished. (2018)

It must have been a Wednesday—or, maybe next week's Sunday, he doesn't know— _doesn't really care to know_ because trying to understand the conception that is Time will only be futile, _because Time is relative and carries something too bittersweet for him to linger on_ —when he thinks he hears the echoing announcement of a new arrival, before shoving past the excited bumbling crowd. This is _his_ job: to welcome the newly dead and help them settle into their non-living states.

Well, at least he would like to think so. Secular work isn't really sought after Death, because _what kind of person would continue spending their afterlives with something so useless and for something so meaningless such as money? (_ A bloody stupid bloke, that's what.) However, Downstairs—it's a less morbid title than the Land of the Dead—is still a rather large community, which, without management, could be quite stagnant and rudimentary; a wayward place of confusion and chaos.

(Those who help lessen Loneliness of corpses filled with regret and guilt and _memories_ are called Helpers. He is a Helper—or, so he tries to tell himself. _Helpers are souls who work for others, stemmed by their empathy and kindness._ )

(He works only to satisfy his need of _work gotta work_ , and, really, there's not much to do than that.)

Anyway, back to the matter at hand: is a welcomer even a real job? He'd laugh if it is, because that's just ridiculous. A _welcomer._ Ha! Then again, he truly does enjoy becoming this odd yet sublime thing newcomers would often see him as, so it really is difficult for him to be quite sharing of his work to others. Selfish, he knows, but he had always been the territorial kind, even when he had been alive.

(That's the main reason he's down Here and not up There, isn't it?)

"Paul," he shimmies up to the counter of the bizarre pub with an equally bizarre name, tipping his hat in greeting. The remainder of a once great bartender smiles at him. "Who's the fortunate soul to land 'ere?" There's a stash of cigar somewhere in the establishment, he's sure of it, and suddenly he's leaning over abandoned dishes and tableware to feel for the telltale shape of its container.

Paul tuts, looking at him with disapproving half-lidded eyes. "You should go and do your magic, monsieur, and leave your vices behind. Ladies do not like such ... _revolting_ smell." Someone calls for the waiter, so Paul scurries off, leaving him to sigh, the sound drowned by the brazen music and shrill chattering of patrons.

He wants to call out that _no_ , you dunderhead _, no one can even smell_ , but Paul is right; he should get on to work. So, he does—walks up to the shocked girl of ten, and asks if she's ever seen such a handsome skeleton before. She doesn't really answer him, and that's fine. People have to get over the trauma in their own pace.

He sits there with her in silence, waiting until she stops crying, until she reaches out to him, until she places a small hand atop his femur. Then. Then, he smiles.

(And, that's the reason he's up Here and not down There, isn't it?)

(He's still a Helper—and, Helpers work for others, stemmed by their empathy and kindness.)

—

"Name's Jangles. Bonejangles. And, welcome to _Burc Mord_ , a small corner in the Land of the Dead."

—

Time is relative (— _it is_ , he seethes as he takes a long drag of a fallen down stick of something too sweet—), but he's dead for a too long a time, a blur of hazy grey images flying by him. He takes count of the Years since he has descended down, and he thinks of smashing the tables when he had realized: _it really has been too long._

Well, not smash the tables, since that would be just a waste of good ol' wood, but maybe just slamming his hands down. Yeah.

He remembers being thirty when he died, surrounded by glitters and glam, killed off by a stranger in his own home. It's a Thursday when he reminisces, says the Sun calendar adjacent to him, and it is a Thursday when the bell rings.

Ah. _New arrival._

—

She's a pretty sheila, that's what she is, and he'll tell her so as soon as he reaches her place by the piano. He knows she's terrified, so _so_ terrified, from the way her shoulders shudder, but there is a frigid air to this lady that makes him hesitate and recoil and wonder if she's one of the Misanthropics (—those carcasses dropped down for the sake of being dropped, with forever flesh and nevermore lives, hung to decorate the ghastly parts of the Land). She's not, _good heavens he can't handle Misanthropics_ , because then she's sighing a shuddering breath, and he's not sure whether or not to tell her that's her last one.

He opts not to. She would figure it soon anyway—oh, wait. She already has, eyeing the sword jutting out of her ribs with thoughtful humming and subtle pulling. It's difficult not to laugh in amusement when she fails in every tug. "Want some help with that, doll?"

There's that short while she hesitates to accept his help, before cocking her head to the side in resignation. "If you would, then please." Then she's bracing herself from the jerk he would have to do to remove the offending weapon from her body, and _damn._

She's still a pretty something, and _damn_ , because he was still a once-upon-a-time man. _A once-upon-a-time man._ Right. Giving himself a disappointed mental slap in the skull for the inappropriateness of his musings, he grips on the handle and pulls. It comes off easily, with blood and tissue trailing behind, and he's almost shocked to see it stain the floor with red and scarlet. Almost.

Bonejangles gives her a sideways glance, measuring her reaction. Her flesh, still a powder blue, is turning paler by the moment, as she watches her own insides mar the floor. The band—his self-proclaimed mates of lonely bones like him—had stopped playing a long time ago, and a hush fell among the citizens inside the bar. Though this would’ve been the case for all the newcomers suffering what Bonejangles fondly called ‘death denial’ (—it’s one of the non-livings way of mourning for the new arrival’s death, and it almost always brings a tingling sensation just below his eye-sockets _because wasn’t that how his arrival had been?_ —), he isn’t quite sure she’s denying the sudden information that she’s dead.

Her blank gaze, unseeing, is making him antsy, and he raps his knuckles against the handle of the sword in slow taps. “So,” he decides to say cautiously, leaning against an invisible wall. The silence is thick as quiet inquiries of the lady’s state is chattered amongst the crowd. Bonejangles doesn’t blame them for starting up again—after all, her silence is off-putting. Although she had, albeit quite softly, talked to him earlier, acquiescing to his offhanded remark that he could help, she’s not talking _now_ , nor showing any sensible face that would assume her reaction towards all … _this_ (he had mentally waved his hands in the air for emphasis, sword swinging).

Only Misanthropics would stare at Death and not as much as breathe a tiny bit wrongly, but she isn’t a Misanthropic. (He had unconsciously took a step back, hands clenching and unclenching.) She’s not a Misanthropic.

He tries again. “So, ya got hitched or somethin’? It’s a pretty dress.” He’s hoping it at least brings her to smile. Weddings are happy events, yeah?

But, then tears spring out of her eyes—a first one at the right eye, then the second at the left, and the third at—but, he’s lost count _because now she’s speeding away from him, pushing past the hordes of skeletons and corpses until she’s gone._ Bonejangles merely stares, and he shrugs away the genuine comforts of “you hadn’t done anything wrong, J” and “she must’ve been a flighty one, that girl” he receives from the rest of the crowd.

—


End file.
